Books! Books!

Oh, boy.
I just finished Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.
Before you judge me, I've had it for nearly a year, and I only picked it up on Friday.
It's so sad.
Ginger men with long noses. Eep.
I spent the entire book wondering when the Raven King was going to make an appearance, and was terribly disappointed when...
when...
when Norrell turned out to be right.
Damn him.
Old men whose noses are always in books generally are, sadly enough.
Even when they're selfish and obstinate.
Particularly when they're selfish and obstinate.
Buh.
That isn't what I started this post to say, actually.
I love--love--the idea of a man being a book.
Also, I may have to do a sketch of John d'Uskglass in the midst of my many, many studies.
I'm doing a nude after Michelangelo. She is very muscular--one of the statues from the tomb of Lorenzo di'Medici.
I have a confession to make.
I love H pencils.
And I desperately want another tattoo.
Craving some b-mod.
It is bad.
As is my addiction to caffeine.
And Sam Vimes.
Please
stand
by.